


We Remain

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Series: We Remain [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Coatez, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-War, Rain, Rare Pairings, post-ME3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve Cortez is left behind on Earth at the end of the Reaper War, Major Coats offers to take him in while he recovers from surgery. Unsure about the fate of his friends aboard the <em>Normandy</em>, Steve must find a new purpose in life.</p><p>With so much uncertainty in the galaxy--riots and food shortages, power outages and homeless wandering the streets--he knows all of two things: Major Coats is a more complex man that he'd ever imagined; and his ass looks simply fantastic in a towel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pixelatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixelatrix/gifts).



> Many thanks to the amazing potionsmaster and the magnificent MundaneChampagne for their betaing!
> 
> Prompt: A slow burn post!war where Coats offers Cortez a place for him to stay while he's recuperating from injuries sustained while he crash landed on Earth.
> 
> Title is from Giant Sand's Astonished (In Memphis)
> 
>  
> 
> _Giant Sand:Astonished (In Memphis)_
> 
>  
> 
> Out here on the sidewalk  
> At home in the rain  
> I count the staining gum spots.  
> If you connect those dots they spell your name  
> And I stand astonished.  
> Do we remain?
> 
> Way out here, even the odd matters,  
> Way out here in the rain.  
> Still at home here in these splatters  
> Even the rain spits out your name.  
> And I stand astonished.  
> And I remain.  
> You astonish me.
> 
>  Out here on the sidewalk, out here in the rain  
> I count the staining blood drops from some poor unfortunate.  
> But if you connect those dots  
> Even they spell your name.  
> I stand astonished. I refrain.  
> I stand astonished. We remain.

**Victory Day + 6 days**  
  
It always rains in London after the end of the Reaper War. So much pollution in the air, the sky always dank with gray clouds, and even though it's spring, there's a chill in the air that only seems to increase every day. The grit of the rain is everywhere: on clothes, in hair, on every surface. On days that it doesn't rain long enough that it can begin to dry out, a gray grit covers everything: fine, chalky powder that if given half a chance hardens into a fine film, which in turn becomes a slippery sludge the moment the rains start back up again.  
  
If Major Coats thinks about it too long, he can see the potential for going a little crazy from it all. Fortunately there is barely a moment to spare for such stray thoughts such as those. He hopes that for years to come he will be far too busy to spare a thought for any of this. He takes a small amount of comfort from the idea that he could possibly busy himself for twenty hours a day into infinity so as to never have to think about the past year ever again. He knows that idea is only a pipe dream. But it offers a small amount of relief in amidst the overwhelming knowledge that the life he had had before will probably never be the same.  
  
Even trying to compile an agenda of things to be done nearly makes him want to bellow his frustration. But that won't do. That will never do. London had come to the brink of destruction over 200 years before and managed to rebuild. London will rebuild again. Granted, the Londoners of his great-great-grandfather's generation hadn't had massive Reaper dreadnaughts to maneuver around, or the decaying bodies of the indoctrinated to burn. But there is little doubt in his mind that if they had, they still wouldn't have let that get the better of them. And so he is determined to not let it get the better of him either. A hundred years from now, future generations will look back with pride at how much they had accomplished. Far be it for him to let the children of the future down, as far as his part will play out anyway.  
  
And in the meantime, there is work to be done and not enough hands to do it.  
  
In those moments of feeling overwhelmed, he hears the words of Admiral Anderson: "It only takes one person to make a difference." And then he would speak about Shepard, his voice growing quiet as he told of all she had accomplished by then, the unrelenting force she used to maneuver the galaxy into cooperation. "Imagine what we could accomplish if we all stood up like her," Anderson would continue. "I don't know if she's brave, or just bullheaded. But she gets the job done. Never met anyone like her."  
  
There had been so many deaths. But no one searching through the rubble on the Citadel has found her yet to count her among the living or the dead. There is still hope that she could still be alive.  
  
A small hope. But a hope nonetheless.  
  
In amidst all the death and destruction, there is still life. Soldiers will still be soldiers, still try to cheer each other on, regardless of the number of limbs they may have, or whether they can see, whether their flesh had been eaten away by ravager acid, or burned in the resulting fire of a Reaper's deadly blast. They still manage to find that one little thing that can make the shittiest of days just a little brighter.  
  
Case in point: impossible as it may seem, someone has managed to dig up an old record player—a small box with a crappy speaker that sputters and shrieks—and is blasting Louis Prima like nobody's business. It echoes through the improvised field hospital in the shuttle hangar bay, bouncing off the metal walls as injured men and women sing along:  
  
 _"...I ain't got nobody. I'm so sad and lonely..."_  
  
The few who are able dance in their hospital gowns, arses hanging out in the breeze while the wounded around them clap and sing along. Wolf whistles pierce the air as one man in particular grabs a Salarian nurse and twirls them down the row between the beds. Coats finds himself grinning along with the rest until his attention is drawn to one man in particular, propped up in a bed along the far wall. The man observes quietly, smiling slightly with a far away look in his eye as if remembering someone else, somewhere else.  
  
It's the deep blue eyes that transfix him.  
  
"Major Coats, sir. Doctor Ambrose is this way." He's saluted by a corporal, sent to fetch him to the doctor that is attempting to coordinate beds for all the injured of all the species under her care. Ambrose, he has learned, had been in private practice before the war, tending to London's most elite of tennis elbows. However easy she had had it before, she quickly offered her services when the Reapers had struck. And while they had frankly been glad to have any medical staff they could cobble together at this point, her knowledge of bone weaves is unparalleled. She has managed to save many lives, and many limbs, in the last year. And not just human.  
  
The corporal guides him to an office at the back of the hangar where he finds her surrounded by more than a few datapads, and even more hard copy paperwork. Technology is unreliable at best for the time being. Extranet and communication through omnitool is currently unavailable. The Reapers had systematically destroyed satellite systems and comm buoys during their invasion of Earth. They'd had to learn quickly to communication the old fashioned way—paper and pen, morse code, and walkie-talkies.  
  
"Ah, Major, thank you for coming." Ambrose had a wide smile that curled up the corners of her round cheeks into nearly a Cheshire cat grin. The smile almost reaches across the exhaustion in her eyes. She's a tiny woman and when he'd first met her several months ago, he'd wondered how she could command such respect from the Alliance crew. Watching her work, seeing her skills in the field, and her unwavering determination to save as many as possible made him a believer.  
  
She shakes his hand quickly before pulling a chair out for him. "I trust you looked over my proposal. Would you like anything? I'm afraid all we have is water at the moment. Although Corporal Lancer has informed me that a cache of tea is on its way." He can hear the longing in her voice for the indulgence of something so simple as a cuppa.  
  
"No, thank you, ma'am. Let's get to it, if you don't mind." He's never been one for the quintessential British tradition of tea, much preferring coffee anyway. But even if he had a preference for tea and it had been available, he still would have refused simply because it is meant for the men and women out there in the hangar bay and for people like the doctor who are there to put the pieces back together.  
  
They spend the next hour sorting through maps of London. Not many hospitals are left standing, and those that are are stacked to capacity already. But they need to find somewhere to put all the people in the hangar bay, hopefully somewhere a bit cleaner and warmer. Elder care homes and even schools can be put to use if any are found to be fit and he's been put in charge of trying to find somewhere, anywhere for them to go. The problem being that so many homes and apartment blocks have been destroyed, whatever population is left has sought out such places as well. The good doctor is reluctant to just move in and take over a building that’s already occupied. But there is little for it in the end. Someone will have to move.  
  
Coats had been surprised to learn that much of the area around Alexandra Palace and Muswell Hill in northwest London had been undamaged. An Alliance marine outpost had been established in Ally Pally itself, but he points to a primary school just on the edge of the park. "There are some people living here, but because there are so many homes stills standing, not as many as you'd think. It would be easier to find somewhere for them to relocate to. It's four stories, and no lift to speak of, but say the word and one can be installed. It's big enough for as many as you have here in the hangar plus room to spare. And the heat still works on a generator. Important for how cold it's been getting lately."  
  
"I need your word that you'll personally see to the ones living there have somewhere safe to move to. I'm not kicking anyone out onto the street."  
  
He thinks he's pretty sure what's going through her mind: the streets of London have become unsafe with looters and scavengers, people desperate to survive who have turned to desperate measures. Plenty of weapons can be found littering the battlefield, and even though patrols and curfews has cut down on on incidents, they can't be everywhere always.  
  
He gives his word and they shake. He's ready to get moving, never one for sitting in an office. He halts in the doorway, eyes skimming over the well-lined field of cots spread out before him. "You've done an excellent job here, doctor. I don't know what we would have done without you."  
  
Ambrose shrugs, leaning against the door jam. "Someone else would have come along, I'm sure. I'm just happy I can help. So many—" She stops short and shakes her head. She doesn't finish the thought. So many lost. So many soldiers. So many civilians. So many medical staff. It doesn't need to be said.  
  
He turns his attention back to the rows of beds, his attention again captured by the man on the far wall. At some point during the last hour the music had been turned off, now only the quiet hum of conversation fills the cavernous space. The man is propped up with pillows, a book in his hand. "Is that Lieutenant Cortez?" He asks, even though he knows full well it is.  
  
Ambrose sighs. "Indeed, it is. His leg was shattered in a shuttle crash. We've managed to put him back together physically. He'll have that leg in a cast for several weeks for the bone weave to set. To be honest, we're not really sure what to do with him. He refuses to be moved to a more private room. But the brass want to treat him with more fanfare, seeing as he's part of Shepard's crew."  
  
There has still been no word from the _Normandy_. Or most of the rest of the fleet, for that matter. God only knows where they ended up, beyond which relay. And how far across the galaxy from Sol. He knows there’s a team assigned to figuring out how to repair the relay, but it’s early days yet before they’ll know if it’s even possible.  
  
"It must weigh heavily on him, not knowing where his friends are. From what I understand, they were a tight bunch. I'm certain it's terrible, not knowing if—"  
  
"If they're alive."  
  
She nods. The weight of the missing Commander sits heavily between them, left unspoken.  
  
"Would it be alright if I talk to him? We met briefly. During the final push."  
  
"Certainly. Seeing a familiar face would do him good."  
  
He's surprised to feel the palms of his hands sweat a little as he makes his way down the row. As he approaches, he can see that while the lieutenant has a book open before him, he isn't reading. The far-away stare in his eyes reveals he is somewhere beyond the page. But the moment Coats approaches the cot, Steve Cortez looks up with those brilliant blue eyes and the look turns from vacant and sad to warm and welcoming. "Major Coats, sir! You're a sight for sore eyes." He salutes quickly.  
  
Coats snaps a salute in return. "Lieutenant. Just wanted to see how you're doing."  
  
The sadness in the man's eyes belie the smile he tries to put forward. "Not the first time I've crashed. But it was the worst time to go belly up."  
  
"From what I heard, you pulled some fancy flying just to get as far as you did."  
  
Cortez's smile turns warm at the complement. "Just doing my job, sir."  
  
"So what did they find for you to read there?"  
  
The man seems surprised to find he has a book in his hand. He flips it over to read the cover. " _The Long Goodbye_. One of those 'hard-boiled' detective books. It was either that or something called _Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants_." He shakes his head, laughter at the corners of his mouth. "I'll let someone else have that."  
  
Coats doesn't linger long. He has a full schedule for the rest of the day and he can see the other man is tired. He shakes Cortez's hand, feeling the warmth and the callouses. He pulls his gaze away from those eyes, not wanting to get caught staring. But he's unable to hide the heightened color that he knows is rising on his neck. Time to exit quickly before he makes a complete arse of himself.  
  
He finds the doctor surrounded by a huddle of staff and draws her aside with the promise of a quick conversation. "If I may, I might have a suggestion for Lieutenant Cortez. I have a bungalow on Gamma base. It's not much, but I'm rarely there. He could billet with me, have my bed. There's a couch I can sleep on. One less for you to worry about."  
  
Ambrose agrees with a relieved smile, sending her corporal to begin the process of getting the man transferred. As he walks away, he tells himself he is helping a fellow soldier, lightening the load if only slightly for the doctor. But his palm itches from the memory of the contact with Cortez's hand and he tightens his fingers into a fist, holding onto the feeling for as long as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

**V Day + 8 days**  
  
The sun decides to shine through the clouds that morning, but by the time Steve is helped down from the shuttle with a guiding hand from Corporal Lancer, a fine mist has started back up. He raises his face up to the sky, resting heavily on his crutches, and for a brief moment closes his eyes to feel the drizzle cover his face. Cool and damp, somewhat refreshing until the fine grit of pollution makes its presence known with a slight greasiness that sours the moment.  
  
As if he understands the need to stop and take a breath, Lancer stands patiently with Cortez's small bag slung over one shoulder. Steve had been cooped up inside a loud and busy hangar bay for a week. Not much time to think, or be alone with thoughts that he doesn't necessarily want to entertain. Still, the corporal is on a tight schedule and adjusts the bag discretely. It's enough to get his attention.  
  
"Major Coats' bungalow is this way, sir."  
  
Rows of prefabs line the north end of what appears to be a large park. Damaged buildings had been pulled away—the scarring in the earth spoke of the many that had been removed—and the remaining housing reformed into military-straight rows. Some had been repaired with metal sheeting to secure the worst of the damage, and a few windows were boarded over. They make their way slowly, the cast on Steve's leg heavy and bulky. He can feel the blood pulsing through, especially in his foot, which he'd been told is a good sign. But it's an uncomfortable feeling regardless.  
  
A private approaches them at a run, coming from a group of buildings on the far side of the park. She skids to a halt, hand snapping a salute. "Lieutenant, sir. Major Coats is delayed." She speaks with quickened breath, panting from her sprint while trying to appear as if she weren't. "I'm to—I was supposed to meet you when you landed. Sorry, sir." She casts him a quick sidelong glance from under long lashes.  
  
"Alright, Private—"  
  
"Fitzpatrick, sir. Private First Class Joi Fitzpatrick. Major Coats has assigned me as your assistant." She reaches out for the bag that Lancer passes over. "Thank you, Corporal. I can take it from here. Major Coats said to tell you 'thank you'."  
  
She talks quickly as she escorts him the rest of the way. "I'm to get you whatever you need, day or night. The major is often away and he wants to be sure you're taken care of. But I'm not to crowd you, that's what he says. Oh! I probably shouldn't have told you that. I talk too much. That's what I'm told anyway. Here we are, sir. 12C. Home, sweet home!"  
  
As prefabs go, it's not bad. A couch and desk stand off in the corner of the living space. There's a small kitchenette and a doorway leading off to a bedroom and bathroom. The room is dominated by a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stuffed full of books: paperback and hardbound, small and large. It's an impressive sight in this day and age of digital literature.  
  
"It's small," says Fitzpatrick. "But cozy, right? At least it's not the barracks. I'll put your bag in here, sir. Major Coats said to tell you you're to sleep in the bed and he'll take the couch."  
  
Steve opens his mouth to object. The major's kind offer of housing is one thing, but putting him out of his bed is entirely something else. Before he's able to protest, Fitzpatrick stops him. "And he said you're going to go all noble and demand that you'll sleep on the couch. But he said to tell you, 'He's under orders to take the bed and if he refuses, I'll kick him out on the street and he can bloody well go sleep under a bus.'" Fitzpatrick waggled her fingers in quotes as she repeated the line back in a fairly good imitation of Coat's clipped voice.  
  
He laughs, just a little. "Alright. Point taken."  
  
"There's rations in the cupboard there, but I'll be happy to get you a hot lunch from the mess. I'm not sure what it is exactly today, but it didn't smell horrible when I went past."  
  
"Rations are fine. And you probably have a million other things to do around here than fetching things for an old, wounded soldier."  
  
Fitzpatrick pulls a small, black object from her pocket. "In that case, I'll let you settle in. This is for you."  
  
"What is it?" He turns it over in his hand. Some sort of comm device from the looks of it, but not anything he'd ever seen before.  
  
"Walkie-talkie. Two-way comm. Voice only. They've come in handy the last year after the Reapers shot down the satellites and no one's omni works anymore." She points to a second one at her hip. "When you need anything, just give me a shout. Press the black button." He does and hers answers with a click. She grins. "Just like in the old movies." She leaves with a snapping salute.  
  
Steve takes a moment and studies the small space. He's not really sure when the last time might be that he'd been left alone with only his thoughts for company. Even on the Normandy, working on the shuttle, there would always be someone around. If not James, then another crew member or even Shepard hanging around over his shoulder, watching him tinker with the engine. Her interest had never been idle, but an engineer's curiosity. She had expressed to him several times how she missed working on engines, how all her time was spent rubbing diplomats' nervous fingers or trying to crunch fleet numbers. Maybe, he'd told her, once the war is over, they'll let you tinker again. She'd just shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. What that meant—survive and be left alone, or not survive at all—he wasn't sure. Maybe it had meant both.  
  
He sighs heavily, eyeing the couch and feeling guilty about putting the Major out. If he had known the situation, he probably wouldn't have agreed to being moved. He wonders if that had been left out on purpose. He finds himself in the bedroom, more tired than he’d like to admit. His leg throbs painfully so he sits on the edge of the bed, noticing as he does that it’s a double, not just a bunk and he hasn’t slept on something bigger than a narrow bunk since Robert and he had shared a bed together. He tugs the cast up, grunting a bit from the effort and then lays back on the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
Where did they end up? They’d gone through the relay, he’d been told that much. Then...nothing. Only a few of the fleet remained in the system—Admiral Hackett’s ship among them—having managed to avoid the blast by hiding behind Saturn. He tries to not feel selfish, wanting to have the _Normandy_ back safe and sound when he knows so many others are missing. So many others are gone. He silently chastises himself. No word from the _Normandy_ means no word from the _Normandy_. Nothing more, nothing less. Mulling over the fate of his crewmates and friends serves little purpose.  
  
Irrefutable logic doesn’t make it any easier to not think about, however.  
  
He drifts off to sleep with the sounds of the military base around him. A good, familiar hum, better than any lullaby. But not nearly as good as the hum of the _Normandy’s_ engines.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Steve wakes in the half-light of near evening feeling groggy. Subdued light slants in through the blinds, cutting the room into rosey-hued slices. The pollution might be intolerable and obnoxious, but it makes for the most glorious sunsets he’s ever seen. Bright sun burning through the fine particles. He lays quiet for a moment trying to get his bearings. Someone is in the kitchenette clinking dishes, but trying to be stealthy about it. A heavy footstep suggests Coats rather than Fitzpatrick and with that in mind he sits up, his head heavy with sleep and pain meds. He isn’t used to naps. They make him feel slightly askew to the rest of the world, everything off kilter by a degree.  
  
 _Robert had insisted on them taking an afternoon off, had borrowed a friend’s car and driven them out beyond the settlement to a valley overlooking a small pond. The sun had been harsh overhead, beating down at them like it was trying to cook them from the inside out. They’d found shade in a stand of trees, a soft breeze playing through the leaves above them. Robert had thrown a blanket down on the grass with a gleam in his eye and Steve had been only to happy to tackle his husband to the ground and strip him of his clothes in a tussling match that had them both laughing, twisting around each other in any excuse to feel the other man’s skin. And then later, tired and sweaty, they’d dozed on the blanket, naked to the world with the afternoon breeze brushing softly over them-_  
  
He stops himself, pushing the palms of his hands over his eyes. It seems lately that Robert has been in his thoughts so much more and he doesn’t know why. Is his brain trying to prepare for the worst? He fears the death of everyone on the _Normandy_ with instinctive dread, backs away from it because he expects it. _And what of Shepard? Where is she?_ There are too many unknowns and he feels beyond helpless, cast adrift with no one to reach toward. If Robert were here— _But he’s not._ He thought he had put his husband’s death behind him, and now here he is again, reliving moments as if there might be a chance to go back and recapture them. He rubs his face with his hands, trying to erase the memories, send them back to the oblivion of forgetfulness where they belong.  
  
His stomach growls when he smells food, realizing he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He takes another deep breath to clear his head and heads for the bathroom, splashing his face with cool water to try and banish the headache that’s building behind his eyes.  
  
“I hope I didn’t wake you.” Coats is in the kitchen still in his fatigues, but Steve catches sight of bare feet and suppresses a grin. It has a touch of the domestic, thinking of Coats coming home and removing not only his boots, but his socks as well.  
  
“No, it’s fine. I don’t usually sleep during the day. Feels strange. It’s so quiet here.”  
  
The corner of Coats’ mouth turns up. “Bit ironic, really. Calling a military base ‘quiet’. But I get it. Compared to that hangar bay.”  
  
“The scary thing is, I was starting to get used to it.”  
  
Coats waves him toward a small tabletop and two bench seats that had been folded down from their storage spot in the wall. "Hungry? Dinner is courtesy of the proud men and women of the 201st on KP today. Not really sure what it is, but I'm told it has some nutritional value." He peers closely at the two plates he holds in his hands. "I'm only slightly dubious."  
  
He's surprised by the wry humor in Coats' voice. Up until now, their brief previous encounters have been up against the background of war in some form or other. Here, in Coats' home, he's obviously more comfortable and willing to show a side of himself that is beyond the duty-bound soldier. Steve leans his crutches on the wall and eases himself down onto the bench, extending his leg out to keep it straight. "Thanks, Major-"  
  
"Wolfgang." Coats sets a plate down in front of him along with a bottle of water. He sits and shrugs when he sees Steve's surprised glance. "Might as well be on a first name basis if we're going to be sharing tight quarters."  
  
"Yeah, but—Er. Wolfgang?" He has to suppress the urge to laugh; such an odd name for the soldier that sits across from him.  
  
Coats' light blue eyes crinkle into an easy smile. "My mother was a concert pianist. And my father a military historian. They drew lots on who got to name me. I consider myself lucky. My brother's name is SunTzu."  
  
He does laugh then, trying to hide it with a cough. "As in _The Art of War_?"  
  
"One and the same. Poor bastard never heard the end of it." A grin lights up his face. "Mostly from me."  
  
Steve finds it easy to laugh along with him. He takes a bite off the plate: some sort of stew perhaps? It isn't bad. But not great either. "Is your family still..." He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth. "Sorry, you don't have to—"  
  
"No, it's alright. My father died about six years ago in a car accident. Mum fled to upper Scotland soon after the Reapers struck. My uncle lives up there. I don't know about my brother. He's in C-Sec and the last I heard he was helping with the evacuation, but with communications down..." His voice drifts off, not needing to finish out the thought.  
  
Surely there is something he can say to ease the man's pain, but for the moment, he can think of nothing beyond platitudes: _They'll be okay_ and _It'll all work out_ just don't mean that much anymore. In the end, he says the only thing that doesn't seem trite. "I'm sorry."  
  
Light blue eyes that moments ago held humor now are simply sad. He really regrets bringing it up. "What about you? Anything from your family?"  
  
Steve shakes his head. "Parents are both dead. I'm an only child. And my husband died at Ferris Field when the Collectors attacked a couple years ago." He pushes his fork through the stew. "I guess the only family I have left is on the _Normandy_ , wherever they might be."  
  
"I—Sorry."  
  
"No, it's okay." He takes a deep breath. "Joker's a good pilot. The best. He got them somewhere safe."  
  
"I didn't know you were married."  
  
"Yeah. Robert. We had a good run." _Brown eyes and laughter and the hot sun beating down on them, dried grass poking up through the blanket, scratching his back—_ "A really good run. Seems like a lifetime ago." He shakes himself mentally. No point in ruminating over a life that is long over. "What about you? Ever have a chance to settle down?"  
  
Coats' smile is wry, just a corner of his mouth turned up slightly. "No. Never had the time. And I guess, just never found the right bloke that was worth it." His rough voice turns a bit softer, as if he's talking to himself. But he looks up and Steve feels captured by blue eyes. He finds he has to force himself to swallow the morsel of food in his mouth. For a reason he's not sure he wants to explore, he finds he's comparing Coats to Robert. They look nothing alike—Coats' olive skin and dark hair not at all like the fairness of Robert, and their mannerisms are as dissimilar as night and day. And yet, there's something in the core of this man that reminds him of his husband. Perhaps because they are both men of integrity and action, compassionate and unstoppable. And handsome, both of them, in their own ways.  
  
He realizes he’s staring. And Coats is staring right back, his face open and curious. Steve blinks and looks away, his heart tripping in his chest. It’s been a long time since he’s felt that first spark of interest. Not since he’d met Robert, and with him it had been instantaneous and mutual: north pole and south pole magnets jumping—and locking—together. He’s always felt lucky that his relationship with Robert had been so easy, so unquestionably inevitable.  
  
He has the sudden urge to find out more about this man who has opened up his home for a relative stranger.  
  
“Listen, I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet.”  
  
Two small lines form between Coats’ eyes on his brow. It’s pretty much the cutest thing Steve has seen in a long time. “Whatever for?”  
  
“You didn’t have to open up your home and give up your bed—”  
  
“Please, think nothing of it. I’m only too happy to help.” The two little lines have been joined by a third, and Steve thinks he might even see a small tinge of red color the other man’s cheeks. He’s gone from cute to freaking adorable.  
  
“Well, I appreciate it nonetheless.”  
  
Coats waves his hand as if trying to brush the complement aside. “Please, Lieutenant—”  
  
“Steve.”  
  
“Er, Steve. Treat this as your home. In all seriousness. I’m gone too much to have it sitting empty. Which is not to say I don’t expect to enjoy the company as well. And not that you’re here for entertainment! Certainly not.” Coats face flushes deeper in a blush and Steve can’t help but smile as the other man digs himself in deeper. “That would be horrid of me, inviting you here just to keep myself from boredom—”  
  
“I got it. Wolfgang, really. I understand.” He laughs, because truly Wolfgang Coats is too unexpectedly cute for words.  
  
Perhaps to cover his embarrassment, Coats stands and begins to tidy the table, stacking the empty plates. “If you’re up for it, there’s a group getting up a game of Skyllian Five later tonight.”  
  
“Poker’s never really been my thing. I’m more of a board game man, myself.”  
  
Coats turns from the sink, his ears practically perked up in interest. “Oh? Anything in particular?”  
  
Steve shrugs. “Nothing like a game of Battleship or Scrabble, but I’m not going to say no to Clue or Mancala either.”  
  
The grin he gets for that splits the other man’s face. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up. Gotta be a cache of them somewhere around here. Probably with half the pieces missing.”  
  
“And buried in a crate underneath the incendiary grenades.”  
  
Coats snorts. “Probably.”  
  
Their eyes lock, grins freezing and turning bashful. Unbelievably, Steve feels his cheeks warm. Coats clears his throat and turns back to the sink.  
  
“Let me wash those at least,” Steve says. He struggles to stand, hoping for a bit more grace than he actually manages. He skips a little, trying to keep from putting weight down on the bad leg and starts to waver.  
  
“You really don’t have to—” Coats says over his shoulder. He must notice Steve flailing and turns quickly, a firm hand grabbing Steve’s arm, pulling him back upright. “You alright?” Light blue eyes, full of concern, are fixed on him. He’s aware of how close those eyes are—along with the rest of him—and how his voice rumbles low in his chest, vibrating through the air and hitting him like an ocean wave, building slowly until the force of it almost knocks him over. And that’s just two little words and a bit of close space.   
  
_Damnit. Get ahold of yourself, Cortez._  
  
“Yeah, I uh...felt a little light headed there for a sec. Thanks for the save.”  
  
Coats doesn’t let go right away. It takes a couple seconds. And in that time Steve becomes aware of the warmth of the other man’s body at his shoulder where he’s lightly touching. He has to look up slightly since Coats is a few centimeters taller than he, but when he does, he’s captured by the gaze of those light blue eyes. Light blue eyes that are looking back at him with concern and curiosity, but also fascination. And that just makes his heart trip in his chest.  
  
“Well, you just lost your KP duty for today,” Coats says before he steps back. He hands Steve his crutches. “Have you been to London before?”  
  
Steve shakes his head. “First time. Always wanted to though. Grew up a colony kid. Went to live with my grandmother in Oregon after my parents died. Never had the chance to travel until I enlisted.”  
  
“And then you don’t really get a choice, right?” Coats grins, running hot water over the dishes.  
  
“Not really. But I never minded. Figured I was lucky just to see everywhere I did. Been a lot of places I never would have otherwise.”  
  
Coats dries his hands on a towel and nods towards the front door. “You feel up for a little walk? I can show you the sights. Such as they are. It’s not far.”  
  
“Yeah, I’d like that. Lead the way.”  
  
The rain has died off to a fine mist. In the dim light of the evening, Coats leads him away from the bungalows, through a small copse of trees and into the open expanse of the park. “I grew up here,” Coats says as they walk slowly over the beaten down earth. “London born and bred. This is Hampstead Heath. One of the highest points in London. And unfortunately, now home to about a thousand Alliance military soldiers and a landing pad. My father would roll in his grave if he saw this.”  
  
They cross a small lane and over onto the heath. Perched up this high above the city, Steve can see central London in the distance where smoke still rises from destroyed buildings. They sit on a bench where Steve can catch his breath, winded from the short walk. The surgery and subsequent forced bed rest had taken its toll on a body that had already been pushed to the limit. He didn’t like the helpless feeling of being so physically weak.  
  
Not far from where they’re sitting, several small Turian cruisers sit grounded. One is tilted on its base, supported by the port side wing. The entire aft of the ship has been blown apart, leaving the interior gaping open like a fresh wound. It’s raw, but underneath the damage there is still beauty in her lines. It nearly breaks his heart to see.  
  
“Is that the _PFS Havincaw_?”  
  
Coats nods, his eyes tracing over the lines. “It is. They crash landed on the last day. Turian crews are trying to salvage what they can. Would you believe no one died when they landed? Helluva pilot.”  
  
It makes his throat ache, the sudden rush of loneliness, not knowing where his friends are. Or how they are. He pushes it aside. He’ll know when he knows. “I saw her at the Citadel when we docked there once. She was coming in for repairs. Always wondered how she fared the rest of the war.”  
  
Coats leans back, pointing toward the horizon. “See there? St. Paul’s Cathedral is that dome there. Can’t believe it’s still standing. With everything that building has gone through...gives me a bit of hope. Two hundred years ago, the Germans bombed the shit outta London. That building stood through it all and they rebuilt around it.” He sighs heavily, weariness and overwork clear in that one sound. He turns to look at Steve, “You know what that tells me? Tells me someday things are going to be normal again. Probably not our normal. Some new normal. Sol system has become an instantaneous melting pot. We’re in this galactic community for the long haul now. Gives me hope. Makes me glad to be alive. To have survived. Makes me want to not waste a single minute.”  
  
The evening light has faded, so that in the darkness Steve is hyper aware of the man beside him. They aren’t sitting close by any means, but those few words, so close to something he remembers speaking to Shepard—or had Shepard told him? He can hardly remember it seems so long ago—creates an intimacy and immediacy, standing on a precipice with the only thing for it being to take a small step forward.  
  
“So tomorrow, I’m taking a squad to Muswell Hill which is—” he shifts and points off to his left “—that way. Not far really, but I’ll be gone for a couple days. We’re getting a hospital set up for Doctor Ambrose. Somewhere to take the rest of the wounded, get them out of that hangar bay.”  
  
“I wish there was something I could do to help.”  
  
Coats gives him a big grin. “Ever the soldier, eh? You just work on getting yourself back to full health.” His grin turns serious. “It can’t be easy, being forced to sit this out while it’s all happening right under your nose. But believe me when I tell you, there’s going to be plenty to do for a long time yet. Not like all the good jobs are going to be taken.”  
  
It’s Steve’s turn to grin. “Right. I know you’re right. Doesn’t make it any easier. But thanks. It’s good to be reminded.”  
  
“From what I saw, you’re a helluva pilot too.” He raises a hand to stop Steve from the protest he obviously sees coming. “We’re going to be getting these broken birds back up in the air. But in the meantime, I hear you’re good with procurement?”  
  
“Kinda stumbled into it. Not exactly my forte.”  
  
“It’s possible you might be able to help from the comfort of your own bed. I’ll have Fitzpatrick bring you over a couple datapads. If you can help figure out how to improve the supply lines, I suspect you’ll make a friend of everyone within a hundred kilometer radius.”  
  
“Yeah, absolutely.”  
  
“Just don’t overdo. Couple hours a day. Promise me.”  
  
He grins. “Yeah—”  
  
Coats stops him with a warning finger. “I know what you’re thinking. Say yes to pacify me, then do what you want because you feel like you’re useless otherwise. But Fitzpatrick will come rip that ‘pad outta your hands, she catches you overworking.” Coats winks at him conspiratorily. “You already have one convert. She practically gushed this afternoon.”  
  
“Doesn’t seem out of character for her.”  
  
“No. Indeed not. But it takes a good bit to convince her there’s something to gush about in the first place.” Coats stands and holds out a hand to help him back up. “Let’s get you back home. I’m not going to have Ambrose on my bad side because I kept you out past your bedtime.”  
  
On the way back he feels something coil in the pit of his stomach. The way Coats had said ‘home’ like it’s not just the Major’s, but his as well, the way he seems to be taking a protective interest in his health. And the way he stays at his side as they walk, to his left and slightly behind as if he is aware of how tired Steve has become and is fully prepared to catch him if he falls. Coats is a hard man to read: he seems to hide his cards and whether that’s a British thing or a Coats thing Steve isn’t really sure. He’s not overtly flirting, and yet he can feel an attraction that the Major isn’t exactly hiding, but not showing up either. It’s subtle, nuanced. An invitation in the form of open space. It’s nothing like the rush of desire he felt when he first met Robert; instead it’s something to consider, an idea to test as if they had all the time in the world.  
  
He finds he likes it.  
  
Coats has cleared out half of his closet, but it only takes Steve a minute to unpack his bag. He hangs up his extra fatigues—his uniforms are all on the _Normandy_ and that’s the last of anyone’s worries—and unpack his toiletries and the rest of his meager possessions into an empty drawer. The major is in the shower, so he taps on the door lightly. “Hey, Maj-er, Wolfgang? Would it be alright if I borrowed a book?” There are a couple books on the nightstand, but there are also several titles that had caught his attention earlier on the bookshelf in the living room.  
  
“Yes, of course!” he shouts back over the sound of water running. “Help yourself.”  
  
He hadn’t had much opportunity to study the small bungalow, so he takes a moment to look around. Coats doesn’t seem to own much beyond the many books on the bookshelf and a few framed pictures: one of a middle-aged couple that he assumes to be his parents, and one of the same couple with Coats and another man that looks younger than Coats by a few years. It’s a good looking family; Coats and what he assumes to be his brother share the same dark hair and light blue eyes of their mother, but the father’s long nose and thin mouth are more evident on the brother. Steve finds his gaze lingering on the younger Wolfgang and the humor he can see in his eyes draws him in. The man now is much more serious, but then he’d have to be. They’d been through a war that nearly drove everyone into extinction. Carrying the weight of command could do that to anyone.  
  
The water shuts off in the shower and he sets the picture down, finishing his trek to the bookcase. He reads through the titles: plenty of history going back thousands of years, biographies of military greats like Churchill and Napoleon, along with so many literature classics it makes his head spin a little. He grins and taps the spine of _The Art of War_. But none of them capture his interest like the one he’d seen before on the top shelf. He stretches up, his fingers skimming the binding, but unable to get a purchase to pull it down. If he hadn’t had to use crutches, he could have grabbed it without a problem. He sets one crutch aside to lean on the bookcase, stretching on his good leg as far as he can. So close. His fingers nearly manage to pull on a corner.  
  
Then a warm, slightly damp body is behind him, a hand closing around the book. “Let me—”  
  
His reaction is visceral: Coats’ voice in his ear, the body so close. He jerks back slightly, surprised. His elbow contracts, making contact with Coats’ stomach. The man lets out a grunt from the sharp jab. “Oh shit—” Steve tries to turn, forgetting for a moment his damaged leg, crying out when he puts weight on it. The pain shoots up like lightning, his knee buckling immediately. He twists and sags, falling backwards through empty air, mentally preparing to meet cold, hard floor.  
  
He’s not prepared for the arms that capture him, or the naked chest that he’s pulled against. The hard bound book—still in Coats’ hand—presses into his back while his other hand holds him at his waist, lifting him gently.  
  
Coats straightens slowly, concern showing in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I surprised you. Are you alright?”  
  
He slowly becomes aware of the muscles of Coats’ arms under his hands. One naked shoulder shows off what looks like a kraken tattoo that crawls halfway towards his chest, tentacles curled around gears large and small. It’s a striking and surprising image to see on the man. He has to force himself to look away otherwise he’s afraid he’ll draw closer. To do what exactly he isn’t certain. But his fingers want to trace along the image, and that thought is too strong. The problem lay in where to look otherwise; the muscled pecs, the length of neck, the dip in his collarbone, the full lips? It’s all laid out before him like some banquet for hungry eyes. He releases his grip and tries to put some space between them.  
  
He isn’t imagining, he knows he isn’t imagining, that the hands release him slowly. Or that Coats backs away with something like regret. The hand with the book remains at his back to steady him, but the other reaches behind him for the crutch, his arm brushing over Steve’s sleeve. He realizes only then that the other crutch had fallen with a clatter to the ground, the echo of the sound caught up with memories of the pain in his leg.  
  
“Yeah, I—sorry—”  
  
“No, it’s my fault—”  
  
“You surprised me.” The words are out of his mouth before it occurs that Coats has just said that. Oh. Duh.  
  
“I should have let you know I was there. Completely my fault.”  
  
“No, it’s okay.” He takes the crutch and steps back, trying—and failing miserably—to not take note of Coats’ muscled stomach, or the white towel that wraps around his narrow waist, or the way the towel emphasises his lean hips.  
  
The book is presented to him, interrupting his line of vision. “ _20,000 Leagues under the Sea_ ,” Coats says. “Good choice.” His voice is warm, a trace of humor dancing around the comment.  
  
Once the book is in Steve’s hand, Coats bends and picks up the other crutch. “Thanks.” Words seem to stick in his throat, but he manages that at least.  
  
“Not to worry.” A smile threatens on Coats’ face. Steve can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. The corner of Coats’ mouth seems to want to curl up. He backs away. “Give me a minute and I’ll change. I expect you’re tired.”  
  
“Yeah, you—I mean. Take your time. There’s no rush—”  
  
The smile breaks then, lighting up his face like a beacon. He shrugs and turns, making his way back to the bedroom.  
  
Steve blinks, watching the man go. The remaining limbs of the kraken curve around his shoulder blade, one tentacle making it’s way straight down along his ribs. There’s another tattoo in the form of a steampunk mechanical tiger that is climbing up the man’s spine from his waist nearly up to his shoulders. It growls towards the kraken, appearing to be about to take it on. The tiger is beautiful, sinew and muscle made of metal and gears, the tail a chain that curls upwards. But all of that can’t stop him from looking further down to the ass that’s covered tightly by the towel.  
  
He groans inwardly and is hardly surprised to hear James Vega’s voice speak to him. _Dude! Oh man. You are so screwed._  
  
He sighs, the man now gone from view as he turns the corner towards the closet. _Yes, I am, Mr. Vega. Yes, I am._


	3. Chapter 3

**V Day + 10 days**  
  
Coats wakes in a cold sweat in the nearly pitch black room. A small amount of light comes in through the windows. He knows the source of the light is a generator powered flood light that is nearby on Alexandra Palace Park. He knows he is sleeping on a cot in one of the former classrooms in what used to be a school in Muswell Hill. He knows he is surrounded by his crew. He knows he is safe.  
  
However much his brain says otherwise.  
  
His brain wishes to relive those three days up in the tower of Big Ben. Sniping. His dreams always want to go back to the sniping. There’s no end of targets and they keep coming toward him, focusing in on him while his hand reaches for a box of heat sinks that is no longer there. He can’t take his eyes off the targets and his fingers can’t find the box and that’s when he always wakes with a pounding heart and sweat damp on his skin. And as always, he says a small prayer of thanks to whatever god or gods or goddess or just plain dumb luck that Admiral Anderson and his battalion showed up when they did.  
  
He takes a deep breath, calming his racing heart. _You’re safe. You’re safe. It’s over. The war is over. We won. You survived. You’re one of the lucky ones._ He repeats it over in his head several times. His mantra against the nightmares. _You’re safe. You’re safe..._  
  
There’s nothing for trying to get back to sleep. He can either lay in the dark and beat back the shadows or get up and go to work, keep his brain occupied with finishing up the makeshift hospital, start a roster to coordinate the shuttles that will be moving patients, and _—Steve—_  
  
He lunges up off the cot. No. That won’t do either. He’s managed to not think about the deep blue eyes or that so obviously firm arse he’d gotten a hint of under fatigues when he’d seen him stretching up for the book. Or that flustered look when he’d managed to snag him out of the air and held on, or the way Steve’s hands had grabbed his arms. How he’d had to struggle not to kiss him right then and there. How glad he’d been to walk away because there was only so much a towel can conceal and any second things would have become blatantly obvious to the lieutenant.  
  
He doesn’t have the luxury of dwelling on the man.  
  
He doesn't have the privacy either.  
  
He finishes dressing in the hall, makes his way down to the former school’s office. Get to work. Keep working. Push thoughts of a certain flight lieutenant out of his head.  
  
For now, at least.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **V Day + 12 days**  
  
Doctor Ambrose steps off the shuttle, an IV bag in her hand, waiting for the crewmen to unload the first stretcher. Coats’ marines rush forward to help transfer the wounded. When she’s certain the soldiers under her care are being treated as gently as possible she takes a step towards Coats, her hand outstretched.  
  
“I can’t thank you enough, Major. I can hardly believe you’ve managed all this in such a short time.”  
  
He returns her firm handshake. “Just doing our job, doctor.” He waves her into the building and gives her a quick tour: patient wards, two surgeries plus an ER, plenty of space for the several hundred patients and staff she needs room for. When they’re done, he leads her back to the front door where the wounded continue to stream in, some walking, some on stretchers. It will take them all day to get everyone moved over and settled.  
  
He watches her as she keeps an eye on her staff. She would have made an excellent career officer. Nothing seems to escape her eagle eyes. “Oh, Major. How is Lieutenant Cortez coming along?”  
  
“Just fine, ma’am. Been getting regular reports from one of my privates. We gave him a little bit of work to do, helping out with supply lines. Something he can do from the comfort of bed, and he’s under orders not to overdo. Private Kirkpatrick tells me she only had to reprimand him once.” He grins. “Figured he might as well. We need all the help we can get.”  
  
She lifts an eyebrow at him. “You soldiers. You’re hard to keep down. Very well, Major. As long as he doesn’t try to walk on that leg. I want to see him in a couple weeks.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring him myself.”  
  
“You’re going back over to Hampstead, I take it?”  
  
“Once we get you settled. Next up is public housing. Trying to get some power restored. London might be a city of islands for a while until we can get everything back up and running again.”  
  
She nods, brushing her bangs back off her face. “At least we still have a city. Thank you again, Major. I’ll be getting back to work.”  
  
He shakes her hand. Spends the rest of the day overseeing the transfer.  
  
Keeps his brain from thinking.  
  
~~~~~  
  
It's late when they return to Hampstead Heath. His crew is exhausted. He's worked them hard in the last few days, worked himself even harder. No one complains when he gives them leave the next day, orders them to rest.  
  
The bungalow is dark and quiet as he sneaks in, half feeling like a thief in his own home. He stands for a moment at the door to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, tracing over the familiar shadowy shapes of table, chair, couch. A small light of the digital clock on the oven in the kitchen beckons. He thinks for a brief moment of the bottle of whiskey he has stashed away in an upper cupboard, but just the thought of the effort involved in getting it down and pouring a glass seems nearly too much. He sets his bag down on the floor and shucks his boots and socks before he tiptoes to the bathroom.  
  
"Hey. You're back." Steve's soft voice drifts to him through the darkness.  
  
He freezes mid-step, turning slightly towards the bed. "Yeah, I'm so sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."  
  
The other man shifts, a rustle of sheets. "Don't worry. I...uh. I wasn't asleep."  
  
"Why? It's late. Past midnight. Nearly 0200 in fact."  
  
Steve huffs out a wry laugh. "Yeah, I know. Just...been hard to sleep lately."  
  
He turns fully toward the bed. "Anything in particular? You don't—" he interrupts anything Steve might be about to say before he can even say it "—have to answer that if you don't want."  
  
In the near dark, he can make out Steve sitting up. His form is a silhouette against the window as he pushes the covers back and drags the heavy cast over the edge of the bed where it lands on the floor with a thud. His form bends as he rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The mood of his body is so despondent, so lost and alone, it's all Coats can do to not sit beside him and put his arms around him.  
  
"I should be with them. I should have been onboard. If I hadn't crashed—"  
  
And what is he supposed to say to that? He knows that feeling exactly. There are so many what-if's and should-have-been's. So many opportunities lost in a war that was so immediately out of their control from the start. It had been a year of regret and lost loved ones and not knowing. A year of pain and small victories. A year of forming bonds only to have them ripped apart. It was beauty in a sea of nightmares, camaraderie amidst chaos.  
  
And now it's left to them to pick up the pieces. Move on. Build.  
  
Major Wolfgang Amadeus Coats, never one to surrender or admit defeat, suddenly feels tired.  
  
How he comes to be sitting on the bed, he's not quite sure. "I know," he says. "I know just how you feel."  
  
He takes a deep breath. No one except his superior officers know how he had ended up in the clock of Big Ben, sniping Reapers for three days. Certainly no one in the new battalion he'd been reassigned to knew. He takes a moment to remember the events leading up to it, gathering his thoughts. His hands tremble from the memory. Steve is quiet beside him, waiting in the dark.  
  
"My company...we were assigned to rescue civilians that had holed up in the underground. Several tunnels had collapsed so we had to go up top. Middle of London. It was a...fucking nightmare. Half the buildings just gone. Wiped flat to rubble. We had to skirt along the edge of a juggernaut, trying to stay out of its sights. But then—" he has to stop and clear his throat for the emotion that threatens. "Fucking banshees came up out of nowhere. Fuck, I hate those things. And the Reaper turned toward us as we started crossing over Westminster Bridge. Cut it in half. We weren't stupid. We had staggered out, trying to cross in small groups. But still. Between that juggernaut and the ground forces..."  
  
"Wolfgang—" Steve's voice is so quiet in the dark, a whisper of pain and kinship through loss.  
  
He regrets telling the story, saw how it only adds to the other man's misery. But the words don't stop now that the dam has opened. It's a fountain with no spigot to turn it off. "A hundred and twenty-six men and women in my company. And as far as I've been able to find out, I'm the only one left."  
  
There. He'd said it. Even when he had made his official report—weeks after the event—he'd never uttered those words. Now they're out there in the world. His admission of guilt: he'd survived.  
  
"I grabbed what ammo I could carry," he continues, "made my way up into Westminster. Half of it had crumbled into the Thames, but I found a way up into the tower. I don't know what I was thinking exactly. Take down that Reaper maybe?" He laughs, but there's no joy in it, only the irony of a man who knows his folly when he hears it. "Spent three days up there, killing what I could. Sniping. Always sniping. But you know what I was really doing?"  
  
Steve straightens up, his attention undivided and intense. He can feel those blue eyes nearly boring a hole right into him.  
  
"I was looking for anyone from my company that might have survived. Anyone at all. Alive. Dead. Didn't fucking matter." His hands are clenched into fists, resting on his thighs. he can feel his nails biting into his flesh. "They were just...gone. There was nothing." He turns to study the dark shape of the other man in the dark. "So what..." he's appalled to feel a well of emotion choking at his throat. He swallows hard, trying to press it down, put it away from him forever. But it's as if a small crack in a mighty wall has finally relented and a year's worth of pain and stress are flattening down whatever defences he tries to put up. There's nothing he can do. His chest heaves in a sob that shakes his soul. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with _that_?"  
  
It's ugly, he thinks, the way his body shudders out of his control. His shoulders jerk as he gasps for breath. He doesn't know what to do, wants to turn away from Steve, from himself, from the entire universe that has created this mess. But before he can move a hand is on his back and he's turning into, rather than away from, the man next to him.  
  
Why he felt compelled to tell the story in the first place he has no idea. He's not so unactualized to know that perhaps a part of him wants commiseration. At the deepest level, there must be a recognition of someone else who has also lost so much. He has never wanted that sharing of pain before. He has always believed he had enough of a stiff upper lip to get him through whatever life could throw at him. But he turns and he holds fast, strong arms coming around him and a comforting murmur in his ear—formless words that are meant to soothe. He turns into the man and holds on, fists in his t-shirt so tight he might have been his only lifeline. He turns into the man next to him and gasps for air, coughing to appease his burning lungs. He presses his forehead into the offered shoulder, aware of tears that wet the cloth, aware of his foolishness, aware of his pride.  
  
It takes a while. He's not really sure how long. But eventually he comes to realize that time has passed, his choking sobs have quieted. His fingers ache from holding onto Steve's shirt. He snuffles in a deep breath, not quite sure what to do with himself. "Fuck, I'm tired," he mutters. But he doesn't move. What he'd just done—crying on the shoulder of a relative stranger—mortifies him beyond words. He's afraid to draw away, to see the disappointment—or even worse, disgust—that he's fairly certain will be in Steve's brilliant eyes. That he hasn't pushed him away is a surprise to Coats. And then, in response to his admission, he's hugged harder, chest-to-chest with his nose buried in the soft corner of Steve's neck where he smells soap and skin and... _oh, fuck, he smells so fine._  
  
"You make me feel selfish," Steve says.  
  
"No, that's not—"  
  
"I know." His voice is so quiet, whispered words close to his ear. Outside he can hear the rain has resumed once again, a pattering hiss against the metal siding of the bungalow. "But it's good to be reminded. I'm not the only one who's adrift."  
  
"I strongly suspect that of all the people I've ever met, you are the least selfish of any of them." Coats' voice is muffled between them. He makes no move to pull away, revelling in the soft sound of Steve's laughter rising up from somewhere deep inside. It's music he could quickly become addicted to, like water and air.  
  
"I highly doubt that. I have my moments." Steve's hands are splayed across his back, grounding him, so unquestionably pressing into him. As if he needs the touchstone of another living, breathing being just as much as Coats does.  
  
He wants to lay the man down on the bed, kiss his way from neck to jaw to mouth. Bury himself in him, and not just physically, but in a primal, elemental way that makes him afraid from the need of it. The urge is so strong, so very overwhelming he nearly starts to push. His legs tense in anticipation before he moves the opposite direction, pulling away with such reluctance he barely manages to restrain a groan.  
  
Steve doesn't release him all at once. His hands slide down his back, over his waist, lingering far longer than necessary. Coats wonders at that: the soft touch and the tilt of his head, the intake of breath that expands his chest and the long, slow release of air through his nostrils.  
  
Coats blinks and releases his hold on the man's shirt, flexing his fingers. "I should...uh. Let you get some sleep." Steve's hands fall away, back to his own lap. He suddenly feels the chill of the room.  
  
"Yeah." The words are still soft, slightly tinged with...something he can't quite put his finger on.  
  
"I'm sorry I—"  
  
"Don't." The word is harsh, but then Steve adds more gently, "Don't apologize for being human. Not to me. Never to me."  
  
He very nearly does kiss him then, just for those words alone. Darkness sits between them, enveloping them with only a dim glow coming in through the blinds. The light seems to melt as the rain shimmers down the glass. He can see the solid presence of the other man so close to him. He feels the fragileness of both of them, teetering between mental cohesion and downright shattering. It's too soon, he thinks, for anything. For anything worth something. They both need time to heal; mentally, physically. And time he can do. He's got nothing left in the world but time.  
  
He stands, feeling like he's been sitting for hours. "I—Okay. Thank you. For that." He's grateful for the shadowy darkness. The evidence of his desire is only too obvious beneath his trousers.  
  
"Hey. Anytime."  
  
Later, laying on the couch with only the sound of the rain sluicing harder on the ceiling, he thinks about what Steve had said. They are both adrift, ice floes scattered on the sea. He wants to catch hold, to hang on and not let go. It is in equal parts a terrifying and a thrilling feeling.


	4. Chapter 4

**V Day + 23 days**  
  
They settle into as much of a routine as possible, given where they are and the war that had just happened. Coats would be gone for days at a stretch and Steve would do what he could to aid supply lines, given he's attempting this from enforced bedrest. Fitzpatrick tells him that as soon as he's given the green light from Dr. Ambrose, she can take him to the shuttle hangar where several crewmen are attempting to puzzle engine parts back together. It's something he looks forward to. He's found himself with far too much time on his hands to think.  
  
He will not deny that his thoughts of late have been drifting more and more towards the dark haired man with the light blue eyes. He remembers the way Coats had felt pressed up along him, the warm puff of breath on his neck, the way he had pulled at Steve's shirt as if his life had depended on it. And how his own heart had been stricken with the pain of what the other man was going through, how hard he was trying to not let all the death and destruction get to him. Steve wonders not for the first time if the Major just doesn't let himself feel the pain of loss. It's slightly worrying, but not a cause for alarm.  
  
In the evening when Coats is around and the rain lets up, they abandon their board game and walk out onto the heath to sit on the bench, watching the night sky. Certain nights they're able to see the Citadel orbiting far above and Coats tells him that a team of Salarians are attempting to get power restored not only to keep it from eventually falling into Earth's atmosphere and burning up, but also with the intention of turning it into one large comm buoy. Whether it will ever be livable as a space station is yet to be determined. A few Keepers have started to reappear, from what Coats has heard. So it may be possible someday.  
  
Words remain unspoken between them concerning Shepard. She still hasn’t been found, alive or otherwise and Steve is reluctant to voice his fears which Coats seems to instinctively respect. So it sits between them, heavy with dark loss that forms in shadowed corners; waiting without waiting, being without being.  
  
Steve begins to anticipate those nights they just sit, small glimmers of light on the horizon, proof of life continuing around them. He bends his head back and stares up, counting the places he knows, all the places he's been to. If his travels were a picture drawn in connect-the-dots, it would be a kaleidoscope of irregular geometric shapes covering the galaxy—from there to there to there (where Robert died) to there and on and on. He wonders if the relays will be repaired, if he will ever be able to visit those places again. The thought of Robert's grave at Ferris Fields sends a shiver of loneliness down his spine.  
  
Is there even a person left alive there to remember the ones who were lost?  
  
"I don't think the stars over London have been this bright in a long time." Coats voice breaks into his reverie. He turns to look at the other man. Coats' elbows are resting on the back of the park bench as he gazes upwards. He seems relaxed for a change, not obviously worrying about what job needs to be done the next day or where he's off to next. "Too much light pollution to really see anything but the brightest stars. But now...it's like a carpet you could reach out and touch with your fingertips." He stretches out a hand above them as if he would be able to touch the sky itself. It's a fanciful motion and Steve finds himself smiling, half expecting the man to succeed.  
  
"It is beautiful," Steve says, turning to look back up. He says it about the stars above them. He thinks it about the man sitting next to him.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **V Day + 24 days**  
  
Steve shouldn't have been surprised at how the school Dr. Ambrose had been given now seems to run as efficiently as any hospital. Coats delivers him personally into her hands and leaves the exam room, ensuring privacy by standing just outside the door—he can see half of the back of his head through the small window. Ambrose removes the cast and administers an application of medigel, only the second time he's had medigel since his leg had been crushed in the shuttle crash. Without it at all, he knows it could be half a year of recovery instead of the weeks he'd had to endure. He's grateful for that at least.  
  
"Good. The bone weave looks excellent. And the medigel can only help. We've been able to dispense it more freely," Dr. Ambrose explains. "Someone has been figuring out the supply lines for medical equipment." She gives him a wink. Obviously she knows what he'd been working on while waiting out the healing process. "And I understand there's a facility in Rio that has begun medigel fabrication. Now if we can just get the dextro food figured out, we might be able to sustain the population for a while."  
  
She wraps his leg in a brace, smaller and lighter weight than the cast, and hands him a cane. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. You've leveled up."  
  
He grins at her gaming term, taking the cane. It feels strange to stand without the heavy cast or crutches. His leg aches from disuse, but even so he’s glad to be out of the cast. "Thank you, doctor."  
  
"Thank your roommate. He's probably done more good for you than I ever could have."  
  
"I'm happy to be able to do something useful."  
  
"Yes, well. That too," she says cryptically. He shoots her a look, but her eyes are on her datapad. "Back here in two weeks. I'm sending your name over to the medical officer at Hampstead base. Physiotherapy every day. They can see to that. And I understand there might be work for you in the hangar bay putting engines back together?"  
  
"That's what Private Fitzpatrick tells me anyway."  
  
"Four hours a day. No more. And sitting when possible, which means all the time. You still need to take it easy. Between that and the p.t., you'll have plenty to fill your days." She looks up then and gives him a bright smile. In a way she reminds him of Doctor Chakwas, although the two of them look nothing alike. Chakwas is fair where Ambrose is dark skinned with dark hair. Chakwas’ face is angular where Ambrose is round like a cherub. But their eyes hold the same compassion for their patients, that same need to see the person before them whole again. And they are both unstoppable powerhouses of determination and will, backed up with the skill to push it through.  
  
Ambrose waves him off. "Get out of here, El Tee."  
  
Coats takes one look at the cane and grins. "Nice. Very distinguished."  
  
"It's a look."  
  
"It’s a good look," Coats says. His grin spreads wider.  
  
Steve can't help but answer that smile back. He knows when he's being flirted with.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **V Day + 26 days**  
  
There's an omnitool sitting on the kitchen table when he gets up in the morning. The small notification light blinks at him, silently beckoning. One message waits in his inbox:  
  
 _Surprise! Comm buoy on Citadel up and running! -Maj. W. A. Coats_  
  
Steve grins, seeing that someone—probably Fitzpatrick—has already filled in his calendar for the next few weeks. Physiotherapy every morning at 0915, work detail in the hangar bay from 1000 to 0200. He also notes several evening activities have been added: tonight is 'Double Feature Movie Night' with _The Italian Job (2098)_ and _The Empire Strikes Back (1980)_ at 1900. Two nights later is 'Biotiball Scrimmage' at 1930, and the night after that is 'Talent Contest: Lip Sync and Air Guitar' at 2030. Apparently she thinks he needs to get out of the bungalow, and he can't agree more. A month under what feels a little bit too much like house arrest has been more than enough.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **V Day + 29 days**  
  
Coats has been gone for several days, wasn't really certain how long he'd be gone. Rioting has broken out in several areas of London, people desperate for food and clean water. He didn't say directly that that was where he was going, but by now Steve is beginning to be able to read Coats' face a bit better and the reserved, grim expression tells him everything he needs to know. The pistol Coats issues to him tells him even more.  
  
"Just in case."  
  
It's easier now to keep his thoughts occupied with other matters. He sits off in a corner of the mechanic's shop surrounded by shelves of recovered engine parts, trying to create something whole and workable. It's cathartic, building up around a drive core, fitting the pieces together like a 3D jigsaw puzzle. The shop hums around him, sparks flying from a welder, the sharp metal clang of a wrench dropped on the concrete floor, a shout from an engineer. It's all comforting sounds and smells of eezo and grease and hot metal. Four hours go by in a blink. By the third day he's settled into the routine of it, approached occasionally by an engineer or mechanic asking advice or sometimes by a Turian or Krogan who'd been sent over for parts. It makes him feel if not exactly whole and mended, at least like he's well on his way.  
  
Fitzpatrick still helps him when he needs, but she has other duties for Coats, so he doesn't see her as much as he had in those first weeks. Which is why he's surprised to have her appear at his elbow soon after he's settled down at his workbench. She's wearing a worried expression that's unusual for her.  
  
"Major Coats ordered me to escort you back to the bungalow, lieutenant."  
  
"What? Why? Did I do something—"  
  
"He just said to get you back there asap and I'm not to let you watch any news."  
  
His heart thumps heavily. The _Normandy_. They found the _Normandy_. Or heard from them. Or—He can't get his head on quite straight for thinking about it. He stands in a daze, automatically taking the cane that Fitzpatrick hands to him. It has to be bad if Coats is trying to shield him from something being broadcast.  
  
He becomes aware as they cross through the shop that a group of marines have gathered in the corner, a hush hanging over them. Fitzpatrick must notice as well, taking his elbow and trying to guide him faster, but his steps halt as he hears the words.  
  
 _"...—der Shepard's body has been recovered amidst debris on the Citadel by a team of Salarian engineers who have been working to restore power to the space station. Admiral Hackett of the Alliance has issued a formal statement expressing his esteem for the Commander and his sadness for the loss of those who knew her best. A memorial service will be scheduled for a future date—"_  
  
"Lieutenant—"  
  
Not the _Normandy_ then.  
  
Shepard.  
  
He knew. Of course he knew. It's been too long—nearly a month. At this point there's been no reason to believe that she is anything other than dead and gone. But the confirmation makes his heart ache. If Commander Shepard didn't make it, what hope is there for the crew of the _Normandy_?  
  
Fitzpatrick dogs his heels on the way back. He turns to look at her. "You don't have to stay with me. I'm sure you have something else to do."  
  
"With all due respect, sir. My orders were to stay with you until Major Coats gets back." Her eyes brim with unshed tears. Shepard was an icon and a hero and many had pinned their hopes on her for their survival. That she had sacrificed her life in the process obviously didn't just affect himself and her crew. Every person alive today owes her.  
  
They owe her everything.  
  
He nods. "I think Coats has some whiskey. Care to join me in a toast to Commander Jane Shepard?"  
  
A smile flutters over her face just briefly. "It would be an honor, sir."  
  
"Good. Because I need your help to get it down from the top shelf."


	5. Chapter 5

Coats can't get back to the base fast enough once he's been informed. His only thought is for Steve to not find out from some overhyped news cast, or a marine spreading gossip. His stomach knots when he sees the message from Fitzpatrick. Too late. He's too late. But he doesn't turn the shuttle around. If anything he urges the pilot to pick up the pace.  
  
He finds them sitting on the couch in silence. A bottle of whiskey— _his_ whiskey, from the looks of it—sits on the table. Steve leans forward, spinning the glass slowly on the coffee table, ice clinking gently. He stares down into the glass as if he's hoping to find answers. Fitzpatrick seems only too glad to relinquish her watch, nodding to him silently on her way out. Coats notes another glass, ice cubes melting in half a shot of whiskey. Far be it for him to reprimand her for drinking while on duty at a time like this. From the looks of it, she'd barely had any.  
  
He sits next to Steve, who hasn't moved or acknowledged his arrival. "I'm so sorry," he says. It's inadequate. It will always be inadequate. But he doesn't know what else to say. "I only just found out—"  
  
"You didn't have to protect me, you know." The words are clipped short with anguish and loss.  
  
So he has noticed the changing of guard. "It wasn't that. Believe me, that's not why I sent Fitz." He reaches for and polishes off the rest of the whiskey in Fitzpatrick's glass. It burns. All the way down. "You deserve to hear it from someone. Anyone. Not the media or the rumor mill. I hate that you had to find out that way."  
  
"Why? Why do you care?" Steve looks up finally, those blue eyes boring a hole right through him.  
  
"Because you—Because she made her crew her family. Even I could see that. She's legendary for inspiring loyalty and the only way to do that is make each and every soldier feel like they're important, that they matter. It was obvious she cared for all of you as people, not just as cogs in the great Alliance machine. It's also obvious that you care for her in return, that all her crew did." He lifts his hand without a thought and places it on Steve's shoulder.  
  
He's surprised when the other man shakes it off. "Don't. Just...don't. I can't—" Steve stands, leaning heavily on the cane. He looks exhausted, like he's run a marathon. Or been through a war.  
  
"Steve—"  
  
"No, Major." The rank cuts and he pulls back, eyes wide. He can hear the pain in Steve's voice, how he must be holding back. He feels that sympathetic response within his own heart, knowing the man is mourning and not allowing him in.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Quit. I can't—I can't do this." He's walking to the bedroom, eyes focused on the floor, limping like his leg is worse rather than better. "I just need..." Steve doesn't finish, talking to himself more than Coats.  
  
Coats watches him until the bedroom door shuts softly, then slumps down on the sofa, hands over his face. What the fuck does he do now?  
  
~~~~~  
  
He leaves the bungalow for the rest of the day, busies himself with briefings, organizing water deliveries. Keeps busy. Keeps his brain from thinking. He doesn't return until well past midnight.  
  
He hasn’t been asleep for long when a cry drags him up out of the darkness. In his dream it's a child crying, hiding somewhere under the rubble. But as he slowly comes to in the confusion of not enough sleep and being woken from a dream, he realizes it's Steve. He sits up, listening carefully. Is he in pain? Or dreaming maybe. All is quiet for several minutes and he begins to relax back on the couch only to spring to his feet when Steve calls out—  
  
"Shepard! No!"  
  
He's at the man's bedside before he can even tell his feet what to do, can see that Steve is having a nightmare. He panics. Should he wake him? Leave him be? He doesn't remember what to do. Steve shouts out a mournful cry so he does what his heart tells him and sits on the edge of the bed, gently shaking Steve's shoulder. "Hey. It's okay."  
  
Steve's hand comes up and grabs his, hard, fingertips digging in. Christ the man is strong. "Shepard!"  
  
"It's Coats, Steve. Wake up—"  
  
Steve comes to in a jerk. "Wolfgang?”  
  
"Yeah. It's okay. It was just a dream—"  
  
He sits up, his hand still gripping Coats'. And still as bloody tightly as when he was dreaming. Coats can feel the heat coming off him and wonders if he's feverish. His chest is bare, softly lit by moonlight through the blinds. Steve's skin is damp with sweat under his hand, all firm muscle underneath. He takes a deep breath. Now is not the time—  
  
"Shit."  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"Yeah. I...uh..." He doesn’t acknowledge that their hands are clamped together. If anything, his fingers tighten slightly as his other hand swipes over his face, as if trying to wipe the dream away.  
  
“Do you...want to talk about it?”  
  
Steve sighs and shakes his head. “No. Not...right now. But thanks.”  
  
In the dark, he turns toward him and Coats leans in because...because he wants. Because he needs. Steve's shadow is there, so close, his breath releasing in small puffs as if he'd just run a distance. His gaze focuses in on his lips, barely discernable in the darkness but for a small glint of moisture. The hand that grips his relaxes, gathers his fingers within a gentle hold.  
  
They inch together slowly, time and substance moving at their pace, breaths synchronizing together. He tips his head slightly.  
  
"Wolf?" Steve whispers, like they're telling secrets they don't even want the air to hear.  
  
"Yeah?" he whispers back. They're so close he nearly feels the man's skin on his lips as he speaks.  
  
"You gonna kiss me?"  
  
"Yeah. Is that...okay?" His heart sinks at the thought of Steve saying 'no'. He counts his heart beats—three, four, five, six—waiting for the answer.  
  
"Yeah." He says it so softly it's not even a whisper. The hand holding his tugs him closer and it’s just a matter of lifting his head slightly and pressing in gently with the softest of kisses. His heart trips over itself trying to catch up, pounding in his ears when his lips touch Steve's. He's immediately captured by Steve, his mouth, his arms, his entirety wrapped up from that first second.  
  
It's all he can do just to hold on.  
  
He closes his eyes, sinks into the kiss, gives over to it. Steve’s lips part slightly in an invitation and when he takes it, the softest of moans vibrates between them. He gathers the man to him, chests pressed together through the thin layer of Coats' shirt, one hand behind his head and the hair there is so strange and new, like nothing he's ever touched before—lush and dense, but soft under his fingers. He kisses harder, mouths open and tongues sliding and hard panting breaths hissing through their noses. And—oh fuck! he wants, but—his brain is stumbling backward because this is not the right time. Not like this. Not with Steve fresh from loss and seeking comfort and himself feeling guilty for how he found out about Shepard's death.  
  
He gently breaks the kiss, softens the separation with more kisses at the corners of Steve's mouth, resists the urge to claim his mouth once more and realizes because of that he's groaning from frustration. He blinks heavily, eyelids like weights, brings himself back to the room and sighs.  
  
"Damn, you're good at that." Steve fingers along his jawline, their mouths still so close.  
  
He laughs, suddenly shy, and ducks his head down so that his nose skims along his skin, catching the sweaty scent of him. He finds it does not turn him away. "I, um. It's been a while."  
  
Steve turns into him, lipping along his ear. "It doesn't show." That there is the slightest trace of humor in Steve’s voice only endears him further to the man.  
  
Coats sighs again, somewhere between contentment and longing. He pulls away, putting space between them. "I should let you get some sleep."  
  
Steve's fingers trace down his neck, over his chest. "Can you-Wolf. Would you stay?"  
  
This is the second time Steve has used the nickname and he finds he likes it coming from him. When he was younger, other kids would use it if they dared, often getting a bloody nose for their troubles so that eventually no one dared at all. He never liked the animalistic association, the implication that he was something wild and uncontrollable. But coming from Steve, it rolls over his tongue like silk, smoothed by his mellow voice and sounding more like sex and desire. It's going to be very hard to deny the man anything should he continue to call him that. But-  
  
"I probably shouldn't. Not," he adds quickly, "that I don't want to. I want to very much. And it's not about regs, because you're still under Hackett's command. It's just, I think we should wait," he gulps, "to..have...you know. You've just had bad news and I feel horrid about it and that's no way to start off. Not that," he continues, realizing that he might possibly be babbling and not really able to put a stop to it, "we're starting something. I don't know what we're doing really. Well, I know what I'd like, but I don't know what I'm doing. Perhaps you know what you're doing—"  
  
Steve's shoulders are shaking and at first he thinks he's crying, and why would he be crying? Surely the man isn't so emotionally vulnerable that a simple 'no' wouldn’t send him over the edge. Or would it? And if it did, perhaps he's not the person Coats has thought him to be. And that thought is just more than disheartening. But then Steve gasps a laugh and he realizes he's not crying, thank god. However—  
  
"Christ. You didn't mean stay and..." he clears his throat. "You mean just stay with you."  
  
Steve nods, still laughing. He's gripping onto Coats' arms, holding tight to keep himself upright.  
  
"I'm an arse."  
  
"No," Steve gasps. He tries to stop, and almost succeeds. "No, you're not." Or at least, that's what he's hoping the man says. It's hard to understand the words through the ripples of laughter.  
  
He feels annoyed for about half a second, but Steve's humor is contagious and he gives in as Steve's forehead falls on his shoulder.  
  
"You're really awkward," Steve says. His voice is warm and full of mirth.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"No, it's cute. It works for you."  
  
"Just—shift over." He’s never been more glad for darkness to hide the blazing blush he can feel on his cheeks.  
  
"Oh, you want me to move. Me. The invalid." But even as he complains, he's lifting himself over, moving his leg carefully.  
  
"Well. This is my side of the bed." He stands and lifts the covers and the scent of Steve rises up from the warmth between the sheets.  
  
"Your side?" Steve lays down, feigning indignance. "What if I like that side?"  
  
Coats slides in between the sheets. The pillow is positively mangled from how he prefers it so he punches it a bit. Down lower, it's warm from Steve's body and he resists the urge to groan and wriggle into it. "I guess you'll have to fight me for it."  
  
Steve's laugh hits him in the gut, warm and familiar. "Best two out of three Battleship?"  
  
He has something else in mind, but maybe he doesn't have to say that right now. With some difficulty, he brushes aside the image of he and Steve locked together, tussling over bed rights. "If you think you can take me, you're more than welcome to try." His heart thuds when he realizes what he's said, the double entendre that could be construed. Then he decides fuck it, it's okay to flirt, even if it is accidental.  
  
And of course Steve picks up on it. "Take you, huh?" His voice drops a notch, slightly scratchy with the suggestive tone. "You think you're up for it?"  
  
He rolls to his side facing Steve, tucks his hand under the pillow. The shape of him is just discernable in the dark, hills and valleys of his reclining form. Steve turns his head toward him. He grins, "Oh, I'm up for it. Looking forward to it in fact." His heart thuds in his chest, talking of one thing, meaning something else entirely.  
  
He hears the sound of skin sliding against sheets before he feels Steve's fingers reaching for him, sliding down his arm, taking his hand in his. Steve's hand is warm, calloused in places, but the palm is smooth. He returns the grip, not hard, just enough to hold. “I'm looking forward to a lot of things,” Steve says.  
  
It takes all of his willpower to stop himself from sliding closer and kissing him again. Instead he says, somewhat rougher and deeper than he intends, “Me too.”  
  
Steve answers with a pleased hum and a small squeeze of his hand.  
  
The air stills around them as he listens to Steve breathe. They lay in the dark, hands clasped together. The rain has let up, leaving the only noise from the outside the occasional engine from the landing pad on the other side of the heath. His eyes close and open several times, his breathing deepening. It's been so long, he's forgotten what it's like to fall asleep with someone else in the same bed. He could get used to this again. Very easily.  
  
"Hey," Steve says softly. "You asleep?"  
  
"Mm." He tugs their hands closer to his chest.  
  
"Just for the record, I don't know what I'm doing either." Steve rolls towards him, not fully—the brace inhibits him from being on his side completely—but enough to bring them closer together. Against the light from the window he can make out the curve of his cheek, his ear, his shoulder. Hills and valleys. He so very much wants to explore. "But I want this. You."  
  
"Okay," he says. He brings Steve's hand up and kisses the knuckles, nuzzling his fingers. He's pleased beyond words.  
  
"Okay."  
  
“I’m sorry I was a dick earlier,” Steve says.  
  
“No, it’s alright. Don’t apologize.”  
  
“I could have...handled that better. I just needed time to process it. She--I wasn’t really expecting that they would find her alive. But it was hard not to hope, you know?”  
  
“Yeah. I know.”  
  
They're quiet again, just being. Laying in the dark.  
  
“Despoina," Steve whispers.  
  
"What?" He's nearly asleep, has to drag himself back to the surface.  
  
"What I was dreaming. Despoina."  
  
Despoina, he remembers, is where Shepard encountered Leviathan. Anderson had told him how they had landed on the sea planet and been unable to leave. So she'd gotten into a mech and jumped off into the deep. Had a chat with a being as nearly as old as time. "You were there?" Of course he was there. He was Shepard's shuttle pilot.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He's curious. He wants to hear more. But maybe sometime later, when it's not so raw for Steve. "You okay?"  
  
The other man is quiet, his chest rising and falling steadily. He shifts his leg, adjusts his hand but doesn't let go. "Yeah." He notes a tension in the air, a lingering feeling of disquiet. And then a drop of rain hits the roof, followed quickly by more one after the other so quickly he soon loses count.  "I miss her," Steve whispers, so softly it might have been the wind.  
  
He doesn't hesitate, drawing closer, taking the man into the circle of his embrace. He's mindful of the injured leg, mindful as well of being too close. Steve's arm moves around to his back, his arm heavy on his waist. "I know," he says. He presses his mouth to Steve's forehead, leaves a chaste kiss.  
  
They lay in the dark and listen to the rain.


	6. Chapter 6

**V Day + 38 days**  
  
Wolfgang is gone when it's time for him to go back to Doctor Ambrose to have the brace removed. He sends a message and apologizes heavily, unable to come back because of the riots that continue to spring up, the looting becoming worse. Martial law had been declared soon after the end of the war, but it hasn't been until now that it's truly been necessary.  
  
Wolfgang had been back only once since that night they had slept in the same bed, his face pinched with worry, obviously tense, obviously stressed. Steve had tried to distract him with a game of chess, but the other man had spent more time staring beyond the board than not, so Steve had called it a night and told him to go to bed. He had protested only slightly when Steve had guided him to the double bed, then laughed as he'd tucked the man in and kissed him on the forehead before shucking his fatigues and slipping under the covers.  
  
It had not escaped his notice that Wolfgang watched him move around the room with avid interest.  
  
But he had stayed on his own side of the bed and woke the next morning to find the other side already cold, Wolfgang probably on a shuttle headed somewhere. Steve had rolled over and inhaled deeply the scent the other man had left behind.  
  
Steve is at his worktable several days later when Wolfgang sends him a message.  
  
 _W: Can't make it back for your appointment. Will make it up to you._  
  
 _S: Don't worry about it. Everything ok?_  
  
 _W: yes_  
  
 _W: no_  
  
 _W: Can't talk. Just keep that pistol loaded._  
  
 _S: That's not ominous at all._  
  
 _W: Sorry. I know. Just be safe. Fitz can take you over to Ambrose._  
  
 _S: Alright. I'll be fine._  
  
Several minutes pass before he receives the next message, which isn't unusual seeing as how Wolfgang is probably busy. He searches the shelves for a particular engine part and takes it back to his table.  
  
 _W: Hey. So. What would you say if I asked you to go out on a date?_  
  
Steve grins as he responds.  
  
 _S: I'd say yes. I'd like that a lot._  
  
 _W: Ok good._  
  
 _S: Have something in mind?_  
  
 _W: Yes, actually. I know there's not much for entertainment, but I know somewhere we can go. I'll be back in a few days._  
  
 _S: I look forward to it._  
  
 _W: Good._  
  
 _W: Excellent._  
  
 _W: Fantastic._  
  
Steve snorts. Fuck, Wolfgang is cute.  
  
 _S: I'll see you later._  
  
 _W: Yes. Be safe._  
  
 _S: You too._  
  
Steve grins to himself for the rest of the day, which causes some curious looks from Fitzpatrick, and later Doctor Ambrose. But he doesn't care. He can't describe how much he doesn't care.  
  
~~~~~  
  
 **V Day + 41 days**  
  
The doctor clears him for light active duty, which means pretty much what he's been doing already, but he's also cleared to pilot if he's needed. He receives a message from Hackett telling him to stay put for now since Shepard's memorial is in a few weeks, and then after that he'll be reassigned. It hasn't really crossed his mind to wonder what the Alliance is going to do with him. He doesn't want to pin all his hopes on the _Normandy_ returning, but it's difficult to think of anywhere else he wants to be.  
  
Except now, this possibility of _a thing_ with Wolfgang has just sort of sprung up out of thin air. It makes him a little breathless and a little anxious and more than a little excited. The man kisses like a powerhouse, but more than that he's easy to be around, comfortable like they've known each other far longer than they have.  
  
It's been a long time since he's had this first rush of excitement. He doesn’t want to make too much of it and yet, there’s still this building anticipation for something that might become more. He’s missed that companionship he had had with Robert, knowing that he had someone to come home to, someone to stand by his side. And however much he’s mourned Robert, he still wants that with someone. He wants to try to find that companionship again. If Wolfgang is offering to take him on a date, he might quite possibly be thinking the same thing.  
  
When he gets back Wolfgang gives nothing away about what he has planned, only telling him that he made sure Steve is off the duty roster for the next day. When Fitzpatrick shows up at his workbench that afternoon with a bag and hands it to him with a grin, he’s definitely curious. The bag contains hiking boots, a couple pairs of jeans, a few shirts, and a hooded sweatshirt all in his size and all gently worn.  
  
“Where’s this from?”  
  
“A group of locals have started to organize a clothing donation depository for people who need clothing. Major Coats asked me to get you some civilian clothes, sir.” She grins again and it’s a bit too much the cat eating the canary for his liking. But she salutes smartly and walks away before he has a chance to ask her more. He looks in the bag again and has to laugh. One of the t-shirts has a large bottle of Tummy Tingling Tuchanka Sauce with a Krogan suspended mid-air in a sort of gravity defying grand jete leap.  
  
He makes a point of wearing it the next day. It feels strange to be in civilian clothes. The fatigues have become almost a second skin. He tucks the shirt in and turns to survey the view in the mirror. Oh yeah. He’s forgotten how good jeans look.  
  
Wolfgang seems to think so too when he finds him in the kitchen filling a thermos with coffee. His eyes turn dark, almost predatory, as he studies Steve from top to bottom. It sends his heart rate up several notches seeing the effect he has on him. And the other man is looking pretty damn fine as well in a pair of black cargo pants and black long sleeve shirt, just tight enough to define his pecs. He can’t help the grin as the two of them size each other up.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Hey.” Wolfgang grins a bit more. There’s something lighter about him. Something’s different.  
  
“You’re in a good mood.”  
  
Wolfgang ducks his head and he looks almost embarrased. “I had a, uh...message from my mother last night.”  
  
“She’s alive?”  
  
“Yeah—”  
  
“Wolfgang, that’s fantastic! I’m thrilled for you.”  
  
“Thanks. Yeah. She’s safe for now. She and my uncle, a few of my cousins. In Inverness. They’re going to stay put for now. Not as bad up there.”  
  
He truly is happy for Wolfgang. But it’s hard to not be a little jealous. Knowing how kindhearted the man is makes it easier. And he still hasn’t heard from his brother. He tamps down the jealousy. Time. All it will take is time. And then either he’ll know if the _Normandy_ survived, or he won’t. And he’ll just have to live with that.  
  
Wolfgang clears his throat, changing the subject. “I hope ration bars are alright for breakfast. We’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us.”  
  
“Yeah, fine.”  
  
Wolfgang smiles, studying his face. “You look good.”  
  
“And you’ve been sneaking behind my back, digging around looking for clothes sizes.”  
  
Wolfgang is so beautiful when he blushes and he does so now. “I just thought...it would be nice—”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
He sighs with relief. “Alright.”  
  
Steve edges closer, still limping slightly. His leg still aches in the morning, muscles stiffening as he sleeps. It draws Wolfgang’s gaze down to his leg.  
  
“No brace.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“No cane.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
The man’s grin widens. “Fantastic. Does it feel okay?”  
  
“Not 100%. But it’s getting there. Feels good to be out of that brace.”  
  
Wolfgang puts on a light jacket and grabs the thermos and several ration bars, handing one to Steve. “Fitz get you a sweater or something? You’re going to need it.”  
  
He grabs the hoodie and follows him out the door.  
  
~~~~~  
  
It takes about an hour in the skycar, Wolfgang driving easily. If it was strange before to be out of fatigues and into jeans, it’s doubly strange to be driving over farms and grassland where the destruction is less visible. A few villages they pass over look barely damaged, but the larger towns—Basingstoke and then later Andover—had not escaped, looking nearly flattened. The rain lets up as they head further inland, low-hanging clouds occasionally breaking to let in a small amount of sun. The green below is lush, almost surreal. He wonders if perhaps he might be dreaming it all.  
  
He wants to ask Wolfgang about the riots, about what he’s been up to for the last week, but he also wants to not think about all of that for a while, so he tells a story about a Krogan that came in the shop several days ago looking for parts who started reciting Shakespeare and nearly got into a fight with an engineer over which play was his definitive work. It took four men and a Turian to keep them separated. They talk about nothing of consequence the rest of the way, occasionally lapsing into companionable silences. Once they’re past Andover it’s all fields and farmhouses until in the distance he spots a darker circle on the horizon.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“What’s what?”  
  
“That up there. It looks like—Is that what I think it is?”  
  
Wolfgang seems to be trying to hide a grin. His nostrils twitch when Steve looks at him. “No idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Oh you big liar. That’s Stonehenge. Are you taking me to Stonehenge?”  
  
He shrugs. “Maybe.” Then he looks quickly over and quirks an eyebrow. “Turns out the Reapers weren’t so interested in destroying ancient monoliths.”  
  
The entire place is deserted, not even a guard, so Wolfgang parks on what would be the paved walkway close by. He pulls a backpack out of the back seat. “My parents brought my brother and I here. Not just the once either. I never really appreciated it then. Old rocks that looked like someone had been ten-pin bowling with them. But I get it now. Some things just don’t care what the hell is going on around them, like mountains and oceans. It doesn’t matter. They still go on.” He pauses at the small rope that’s meant to keep tourists out. “I always wanted to do this,” he says with a wicked grin. He takes Steve’s hand and steps over the rope onto the grass and leads him up to the structure.  
  
The grass is thick and unmown beneath their feet. And more importantly, dry. They walk between the stones, fingers tracing lightly over lichen, quiet with reverence. Steve feels small and insignificant and finite, moves closer to Wolfgang as he tells him the history, the theories, how historians and archeologists have puzzled over it for centuries. He’s reminded of the Protheans and how they tried to leave messages for those that came later and how even they failed to convey their message effectively. Time has its own way of skewing things.  
  
Wolfgang pulls him down to the grass where they lean on a fallen stone, faces to the sun. They sit. Just sit. And it feels like a luxury. The sky above them, low gray clouds clearing off for higher white ones, and the green land spread out in front of them. He leans into Wolfgang’s shoulder, sharing warmth through their heavy shirts. He sighs and closes his eyes.  
  
“This almost feels normal,” he says.  
  
His fingers are captured and twined with the other man’s. “It does, doesn’t it.”  
  
The stone is cold and the air still has a chill so he snuggles in closer. Wolfgang wraps an arm around him, pulling him against his chest, pressing a kiss to his temple. They sit and doze in the sun.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Eventually, hunger pangs become unavoidable and Wolfgang opens up the backpack, passing the thermos to Steve. “We’ve got your choice of peanut butter and honey sandwich or peanut butter and honey sandwich. And Fitz managed to find crisps from somewhere, I’m not going to ask where. Plus there’s something I’ve been hoarding for afters.” He holds up a bright yellow package covered with fruit and a red label. “Malt loaf.” He waggles his eyebrows at him and Steve has no idea what that is, but if he’s been hoarding it and is now sharing with him he’s not going to say no.  
  
“And here—” he hands Steve a bottle of beer, “—I’m afraid there’s only one of these to share between us. All I could get my hands on. But I wanted something special.”  
  
Steve looks at the label, expecting an expensive import or a microbrew. Instead it’s a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Uh…” He has to stifle a laugh, turning it into a cough.  
  
“What?” Wolfgang seems to sense Steve’s uncertainty, “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”  
  
“No! No, it’s not that. Just. Um.” He’s confident that whatever he says next is going to insult Wolfgang, so he reverses course. “It’s just unexpected.” He twists the top off and takes a drink, and for however much he’d never really liked PBR before he’s forgotten how much he really hates it and it tastes _fucking horrible_. And yet somehow it is absolutely, positively perfect. He grins and passes it back.  
  
When Wolfgang drinks from the bottle, Steve is given a good, long look at his neck, adam’s apple bobbing. He leans in and presses a kiss there, feeling the rumble of pleasure from Wolfgang on his lips. The other man’s arm comes around him again, and then he must have set the bottle aside because his other hand cups the back of his head. He pulls away slightly to look up and Wolfgang’s mouth is on his, a kiss born of separation and longing. It’s heated and intense and needy, and hard and tastes of hoppy beer and coffee. Wolfgang nearly crushes them together, teeth on tongue and biting on lips.  
  
Everything falls away. It’s just the two of them and this insatiable desire between them. He moans into Wolfgang’s mouth and gets an answer by being pulled even tighter to him so that he’s nearly unable to breathe. And he doesn’t care. Because it feels so good, so right, to be in this man’s arms, to be held close and wanted. And to want in return.  
  
And how he wants. He wants the man who opened his home to him, who walks around barefoot, who has inexplicably beautiful tattoos, who fumbles his way through conversations and guides him down a footpath. He wants this man who considers a trip to a historic landmark romance, who hoards old books and searches for 2-player board games. He wants this man who can hold him close and chase away the nightmares.  
  
He wants this man.  
  
Wolfgang breaks the kiss, lips across his cheek to his ear, down his neck to nuzzle in the curve of his neck. He bites lightly, then laps it with his tongue and Steve knows—he _knows_ —that this is going to be good.  
  
“Wolf,” he says into his ear.  
  
“Hm?’  
  
“I need to tell you something.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
He kisses the shell of his ear, licking, then biting on the lobe. “I really hate PBR.”  
  
Wolfgang freezes and pulls back, loosening his hold so that Steve can finally catch a deep breath. His irises are blown wide with lust, his lips swollen and red. He takes a deep breath of relief, reaches behind him and tips the bottle over. Beer pours out onto the grass.  
  
“Oh, thank god. So do I.”  
  
Well that’s...not what he had expected. He laughs. He can’t help it. It just spills out of his lungs. Wolfgang smirks and then laughs with him until both are caught up, hugging each other’s shaking bodies. It feels good to laugh, like a weight has lifted, like something has clicked into place and instead of existing and going through the motions, life might be starting back up again. He presses his forehead to Wolfgang’s and closes his eyes, feels the warm sun on his face, feels the hard body under his hands.   
  
_Perfect. It is all perfect._


	7. Chapter 7

They return to the base in the late afternoon. The sun follows them the entire way, blue sky above them. Coats has a few things to do before he returns to the bungalow, so he sends Steve ahead. He doesn’t mention one of those things is stopping by the commissary to buy condoms. It never hurts to be prepared.  
  
By the time he’s on his way home it’s dinnertime, so he grabs a couple meals from the mess and carries them back. He feels the edges of the small box of condoms in his pocket as he walks. Perhaps he’s being presumptuous. But from the heated looks they’d exchanged all the way home, he really hopes he’s not. Thinking back now, he can acknowledge—at least to himself—that he’s been attracted to Steve Cortez from the beginning. And while he didn’t set out with this idea in mind when he’d made the offer to Doctor Ambrose, he’s not going to complain at all if something does develop.  
  
He feels a little giddy with the thought of it.  
  
Turns out, he needn’t have worried about being presumptuous. Steve follows him to the kitchen from where he’d been reading on the couch and takes the meals from his hands to set them on the counter. And then proceeds to crowd him backwards until he hits the wall, a glint in his eye, stalking him like a predator and just as graceful. And just like that, his blood his surging through his veins, heart pounding as Steve’s arms box him in and he kisses him like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do in life.  
  
He wraps his arms around the other man, travelling down his back to cup his arse and gently pull him closer. He can feel him, already hard, through their clothes. He takes a breath, returning the kiss, closing his eyes and just feeling. And it feels so good to have Steve pressed along his body, one of his hands now skimming down his side and around to the small of his back, the other resting on his chest just over his heart. His leg bends, fitting in between his own, slotting them together.  
  
“You’re all I could think about,” Steve murmurs, kissing his way across his jaw, feeling the scratch of lips across stubble. “I want you,” he says, voice sultry and deep, so that it vibrates through his body right down to his dick. “I need you,” he says and pulls back to look at him and he sees nothing but longing and desire.  
  
There is so much he wants to say and no words will form into coherency. “Steve, I—” He traces with light fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough patch of his goatee, his thumb rubbing lightly along his lower lip. And those blue eyes that he could get lost in look back at him with such earnestness and openness his heart feels about to burst. “You are so beautiful,” he says. “I just—I can’t...tell you how—”  
  
“Hey,” Steve steps back, his hand sliding down his arm to twine their fingers together, “you don’t have to tell me.” He takes a step back, and another, and another, leading him to the bedroom. “Show me.”  
  
Coats does the only thing he can and follows.  
  
Illogically, their clothes seem to melt off them. He knows Steve’s hands are on him and he probably has something to do with that, but thinking back later he can’t remember how or when, just that it was. That first touch of skin on skin is thrilling, every nerve ending sensitive on his hands, his thighs, his stomach. He wants to explore every inch, every dip and curve and hard plane of muscle. He runs his hand down Steve’s chest, running fingers over the dark patches of hair, testing his sensitivity by rubbing his nipples lightly between his fingers.  
  
Steve gasps and squirms at that, pulling him in for a kiss, laughing into his mouth. “Wolf—”  
  
But he doesn’t give him a chance to finish as Coats presses himself to him and their mutual excitement is only too evident. He can’t get enough of kissing Steve, never wants to stop. He slowly lays him down on the bed, chest-to-chest. They move like honey over each other, slow and languid, taking each other in, hands down sides and over shoulders. Laying side by side, Steve traces over his kraken tattoo, kisses his way down one tentacle to his nipple, and further still until he’s looking up at him with a wicked grin and taking him into his mouth. Coats gasps at the sensation, fire flooding his veins and it’s not long before he has to try to pull Steve away. “Wait—Don’t—Steve. I’m not gonna last—”  
  
Steve laughs again, crawling up over him, kissing him with the salty-bitter taste of pre-cum in his mouth. “Problems?”  
  
“ _Nng_ , just been a while and you feel amazing.”  
  
“Mm, complements. Always up for those.” His voice is rough, deeper in his chest, heavy with passion.  
  
He kisses him again, taking his time. Coats gathers him to himself and rolls, sliding a leg between Steve’s. “So…”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Do you, uh. Have a preference?”  
  
He’s rewarded with a chuckle and a brilliant smile. “No. Do you?”  
  
“No.” He smiles back, entranced by blue eyes and the easy grin. “Just let me—” He begins to get up to grab the condoms from the pocket of his trousers, lost somewhere on the floor, but before he moves far, Steve reaches over to the bedside table.  
  
“Here.” He tosses a small box of condoms at him.   
  
It’s the same packaging as the one he had gotten earlier. “Did you pick these out of my pocket?”  
  
“No, I grabbed them this afternoon when we got back.”  
  
He blinks and then smirks down at Steve. Presumptuous like hell. Why did he even bother to worry? “You really are bloody magnificent.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
They lay in the dark, limbs twined, skin damp with sweat, panting breaths slowing to heavy sighs through slow and lazy kisses. He reaches behind him and grabs tissues to clean them up a little, then tugs the covers up over them, sinking back into Steve’s arms. “Alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve answers. “More than alright.” He shifts, slides his leg along Coats’, pulls him closer. “Very much more.”  
  
“Mm…Good. I’m glad.” He has no thought in his head other than this man and it’s freeing, delicious and decadent. They lay, quiet, not quite dozing in each other’s arms, warm and protected. Steve’s fingers make small circles on his back, his hand occasionally sliding all the way down to his arse and back up again, as if tracing the pattern of his body, memorizing the lines of shoulder and rib and spine.  
  
Eventually the movements slow and stop and he thinks maybe Steve is asleep, but then the man says quietly, “You ever feel guilty?”  
  
“Guilty? About what?”  
  
“The war. Surviving when billions didn’t. And now, having somewhere safe to sleep, food to eat, when there’s so many who don’t.”  
  
He turns his eyes to the window where rain is sluicing down again, ripples of light casting magical shadows over them. He kisses Steve’s brow, talking against his skin. “It’s all luck we survived. Could just as well have been shot by a stray bullet or torn apart by a Reaper.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Look. Do I feel bad for all the ones who died, for the ones who don’t have it as good as we do? Yes. What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Trying to make it better. It’s going to take a while. There’s too much to do and it all has to be done now.” He tightens his arms slightly, kissing Steve’s forehead again. “I think...I think the deal is, we survived. We survived and now we have to figure out how to live again, how to carry on.”  
  
Steve sighs. “It just feels strange. To be happy like this. Knowing there’s so much to be unhappy about outside that door.”  
  
Coats grins and adjusts himself so he can look at Steve in the dark. “You’re happy?”  
  
“Yeah.” Lips find his, gentle nudges over his chin, his cheek. “I am.”  
  
And oh, that’s just...he doesn’t have words anymore, but his face nearly hurts from the grin. So he kisses him, moaning from the feelings that he doesn’t hide from himself or Steve. “I’ve never wanted this as much as I want it with you,” he finds himself saying, brushing his lips over his eyes. The words have a hard time getting past the lump in his throat, but he pushes them past, too important to not be said. “I mean...that is...if you want—”  
  
“I want.” Steve answers with his own kisses down his neck to his collarbone, speaking against his flesh. “Whatever this is. Whatever this turns out to be. I want. I think we’ll figure it out as we go along.”  
  
He’d never thought about it much before, but now as he mulls it in his head, he knows he wants stability; an assurance that whatever he can establish with this man won’t be swept away. Even in what would have been normalcy, he knows that that’s perhaps unreasonable. In these times, in this place, they’ll be lucky to have a day, or a week. They’ll be beyond lucky to have a lifetime. But there’s something about Steve Cortez that deserves so much more than a day, or a week. And maybe he wants to be the one to give that to him.   
  
Maybe he’s willing to take a lifetime to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out much longer than I had intended. But I really wanted to give these two a good start since no one else has written them. And I actually ended up cutting some off the end because of time, so I've made it into a series for when I do get around to adding on to it, if you care to subscribe to that, you might get lucky one day!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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